Page 97 of Rage

Hours later, I was walking home bundled up in my winter jacket and fuzzy gloves. I'd only had the one drink, and it had already worn off thanks to the three glasses of water I'd also had. So I heard when someone started following me. They tried to be sneaky, but that's easier said than done on snow covered sidewalks. I kept my body loose as hands pulled me down an empty alley and slammed me up against the cold brick of a building. It was the guy from the dancefloor, and he was pissedthat I'd kicked him in his junk. He tried to rip my coat open, but I put up a hell of a fight.

I happened to look around, in the hopes of finding a weapon of some sort, and that's when my eyes landed on a long icicle. I somehow managed to stretch my arm out towards it and pull it off the building. The guy —I later found out his name was Jeremy— didn't see it coming until it was too late.

I shoved it into his left eye socket, using every bit of strength my small body possessed. The squelching sound as the tip sank into his eyeball was music to my ears. His arms left my body, and I brought my hands up to the back of his neck. I pulled his head down to my knee and shoved the icicle even deeper. He tried to scream, but I shoved a handful of snow into his mouth to keep him quiet.

I'll never forget the way his eyeball turned to soup and mixed with his tears and blood. I rode the adrenaline high for a week afterwards. He was found, still in the alley where I'd left him, two days later. It was ruled a murder, but the detectives couldn't figure out what the weapon was. It still makes me giggle that they never thought to look around. They would have been able to spot where I'd broken the icicle off. But men in power are often too stupid to look for the obvious answer.

I've killed two more men the same way. Always with an icicle. After all, they melt within minutes of being shoved into an eye, and there are never fingerprints left behind. I giggle a little every time I think of the men I've murdered. And I damn near cry tears of joy when I think of the signature I leave on each of their chests. My hand absentmindedly strokes the swiss army knife I keep in my pocket at all times.

The crown and icicle carving didn't start until my third kill. I wanted everyone to know that the men I'd murdered each met their end at the hands of the same person. But the cops have been running around in circles for two years trying to figure outwho keeps killing these 'upstanding men'. And so far, all that they've been able to figure out is that I'm a woman.

The media has dubbed me the 'Ice Queen of Indiana' because I only kill in the winter. They aren't wrong. Although, I have recently been trying to figure out how to make icicles year round. My current freezer doesn't get cold enough for that, but graduation is only a few months away. Once I graduate I'll have access to the trust fund that my father's parents set up for me when I moved into their son's house at sixteen. It's nothing more than guilt money, but whatever. I'll use it to buy a house and a deep freezer. Then I'll be able to start murdering men year round.

I grin at the thought. But an alarm on my phone pulls me out of my bloody plotting, and I realize that I only have thirty minutes to get to my next class. Oh well. Plotting can wait a while longer, I have a lecture on contracts to attend, and a dual diploma to earn. That doesn't mean that I won't be murdering Alistair as soon as I'm able though. I just need to draw him in first. I want to play with him before I kill him.

I head to the campus bistro with a vicious smile on my face. This afternoon I'm fueled entirely by my two oldest and dearest friends, rage and vengeance. I float through the rest of my day on autopilot. I'm able to participate in my second lecture and answer every question the contracts professor asks me. But the entire time, in the back of my mind, I'm planning out exactly how I'm going to seduce Alistair. I want to string him along, at least until after graduation. I'd prefer to wait to kill him until I'm in a house of my own. Preferably one out in the country with a finished basement.

Ideally, I'd love to keep him chained up for days, letting him slowly starve in darkness before I finally end his torture. The only downside to doing it in my basement would be that I'll haveto dispose of his body. I can take on a grown man in a fight, but carrying dead weight may prove to be a problem.

The thoughts of torturing Alistair last all day, and lull me to a peaceful sleep that night.

When I wake to my eight a.m. alarm the next morning, I see that I have a missed call, voicemail, and text message. All are from Alistair. I listen to the voicemail as I use the bathroom and start getting ready for my first class of the day.

"Heeeey sexy girl. I was hoping you'd see my name an' answer. I'm so fuckin' horny right now an' really wanna fuck that tight little body of yourss. Gawd, the thingss I'd do ta you... you should call me back s-soon and tell me which dorm you're in s-so I can come over, then cum over and over."

Ugh, drunk voicemail. Lovely. I exit out of it and pull up my texts. After listening to his voicemail, I'm kind of nervous about what he may have sent me. I tap his name and the new text thread opens. He sent me a blurry photo. I exhale a breath I hadn't realized I'd been holding in, and laugh. I think he attempted to send me a dick picture, if the blurry peach colored object in the corner of the photo is any indication. But I'm guessing he was too drunk to be able to take a photo without moving. Thank god for small favors. And if the blurry image on my screen is to scale, it's definitely small.

Closing out my texts, I pull up my music app and hit play on my 'female rage' playlist. I let the music feed my soul as I draw my winged eyeliner. And I only have to remind myself once that they're sisters, not twins. A little bit of blush, my favorite lip stain, and two coats of mascara later, and I'm moving on to my hair. I pull half of it back, and clip it with a light pink bow. I move to my closet next, and just stare at my clothes for a moment.

Deciding on a pink, off-the-shoulder sweater, I pull it off the hanger and toss it onto my bed. I dig through my dresser until I find a soft pair of black leggings and thick boot socks, tossingthose onto the bed as well. Finally, I move back to my closet and grab my favorite pair of knee-high, black, leather boots.

Once I'm dressed, I put on my coat and pick up my messenger bag, before heading out my door. I make a stop in the coffee shop for my usual breakfast, and head to my intellectual property law class. Two and a half hours later, my brain already feels like mush, but I still have to make it through three hours of real estate law before I can go back to my dorm. I definitely need caffeine and a snack if I'm going to be able to stay awake while Professor Jones drones on and on in his monotonous voice.

I again make a beeline for the coffee shop. While I'm in line, my phone buzzes with a text message, and I glance at it to see that it's from Alistair. It's the world's worst apology for leaving me a drunk voicemail.

Alistair- “Hope I didn't upset you too much. I was mostly kidding.”

This fucker didn't even actually apologize. Fucking entitled men, I swear to god. In moments like this, I find myself wishing I had a best friend that I could vent to. Sure, I have classmates and peers that I talk to weekly. But it's all surface level stuff, nothing of substance. The last time I had an actual friend was before mom died. Since then it's just been easier to keep to myself.

I sigh, and release my frustration, then think about how I want to respond to this fuckwit. Coy? Desperate? Uninterested? If I come across as desperate, he may grow bored of me and decide he doesn't want to pursue me. But seeming uninterested could make him view me as a challenge. And that's exactly what I want. Decision made, I now need to figure out exactly how to word this.

I settle on, “It's fine, I guess.”

The line has been cast, and I wait to see if he bites. He doesn't make me wait long.

Alistair- “I know ”

He definitely took the bait. I hear a throat clear, and realize that I'm next in line. I order a peppermint cold brew and a scotcheroo. The peanut butter and chocolate covered crispy rice cereal is my guilty pleasure. I don't even care that it doesn't pair well with the minty coffee.

When my name is called, I pick up my drink and wrap my tasty snack in a napkin. The first bite is absolutely orgasmic as the flavors burst across my tongue. I moan quietly, and then realize that it's been too many days since the last time I ordered one of these. I make a mental note to start getting one more often.

The rest of the day goes by fairly quickly, thanks to the caffeine and sugar. It isn't until I'm laying in bed later that evening that my phone vibrates with another text from Alistair.

Alistair- “wyd?”

If my eyes rolled any harder, I think they'd get stuck in the back of my head. I decide against responding for the night, and instead, roll over and attempt to sleep.

Chapter Four

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